Sherlock's Spot of Blogging
by Peridot-Eyes
Summary: A little story centred around Sherlock's new hobby, blogging. But not everything he writes is to John's liking...


**Just a bit of silliness about blogging. My first Sherlock story so I'm totally open to all kinds of feedback. :) Apologies if it's been done before...**

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><p>"Sherlock..."<p>

The splutter of the keyboard dropped to a halt, but only for a moment or two. This left the flat eerily silent, save the dozy crunches of the ancient heating system. But then the clatter of keys picked up again, duly forceful and punctuated with the unintelligible little grunts that had kept Dr John Watson up tonight and three nights previously.

"Sherlock..! Go to bed!"

The hiss drifted down the stairs, and was followed by rapid but clumsy footsteps. Sherlock sniffed as John creaked into the room, ashen, with a face that read 'keep this up and I'll harpoon you'. He glanced up to look at John and swiftly looked back the laptop screen, expressionless, his devil hands still typing away.

"You'll wake up Mrs Hudson if you must insist on making such a racket coming down those stairs."

John sighed in disbelief, rubbing his cheek which was peppered with five o'clock shadow.

"I'll make a note to slide down the banister next time, shall I?"

Sherlock didn't answer, clearly engrossed.

Sherlock, sans case, was usually pretty unbearable. He would pace around the flat complaining, or moping , or taking it upon himself to conduct ridiculous experiments. All of these things normally affected John's sleeping pattern, but not as much as this one. Sherlock was pretty much glued to the sofa all night, reading his writing back to himself, backspacing vigorously, the noise amplified by the emptiness of the flat and the thin floorboards. As an M.D, John was also concerned that Sherlock shouldn't be sitting down for such long periods at a time – although occasionally he thought it would be ample justice if Sherlock ended up glued to that bloody laptop.

The light from the laptop screen was so bright it gave Sherlock's features an almost ghostly dimension. Or maybe John's tired mind was playing tricks on him. He rubbed at his eyes aggressively.

"Sherlock. This has got to stop. Please."

Sherlock's hands now seemed to be moving at double speed, his expression pained with concentration.

"Can't this wait 'til morning, so you don't keep me up all night?"

John thought about reminding Sherlock that he had to go to work in the morning, and that his patients might not see the funny side of him snoozing through their various complaints and maladies. But it hadn't worked the night before and it certainly wasn't going to work now.

"Jesus Christ. Sherlock." John half-whined, his head throbbing from exhaustion.

Silence. For a moment John thought Sherlock had got the message, but before relief could even flood half way through him, Sherlock picked up again, staring blankly into the depths of the screen.

"Right. That's it." John said, much more loudly than was necessary or sensible considering the time of night. Confidently, he strode over to the plug by the wall from which the laptop lead snaked. He gripped it in his hand and pulled it out, imagining the relish of watching his friend's face drop.

And yet still, Sherlock was typing away. John staggered over to see if his friend had in fact gone mad and groaned when he noticed that the laptop had full charge anyway.

"Nice..." Sherlock suspended his word to tap rather fiercely on the ENTER key, "Try. I'll forgive your stupidity and write it off as a lack of sleep."

"Oh well, thanks. You're a real pal."

Sherlock smiled softly to himself. Still typing. John let his elbows fall onto the back of the sofa, leaning over his flatmate's shoulder, reading what he could of the screen. Sherlock's typing was easily double the average speed and John was struggling to keep up. The occasional word could be taken in before it escaped off the screen. 'Gunshot wound', 'human finger', 'microwave'...

"Slow down, I'm trying to read it."

"Well you shouldn't be."

"Why not?"

Sherlock growled, "Because it's not finished yet."

John was taken aback. He huffed.

"What should that matter? I seem to get a never-ending siege of criticism from you, leering over me while I write my blog entries. Why is this any different?"

Sherlock's upper lip curled and John thought it best not to question him further. He sighed, knowing the battle had been lost since he'd come down the stairs. Perhaps he could go fashion some make-shift ear plugs from cotton wool. Or if that didn't work, he could stave off boredom by rearranging the books in Sherlock's room.

He padded out onto the hallway, yawning widely. As his hand fumbled for the banister, a triumphant simper of a laugh sounded from the living room.

"Made some witty comment about the texture of a sheep's brain, I presume?" John suppressed another yawn, turning to look at his flatmate again in spite of himself.

Sherlock shook his head, engaged with his work with a slightly confused look on his face.

"Oh hold on, I think that comment might be trying to be offensive." He drew back his head, tilting it to the side.

John already found himself walking back to the sofa, "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock shimmied up the sofa, allowing John to peer over the screen. In what John presumed was a momentary break from his latest dull rambling, Sherlock was skimming through his blog. Of late, without a case, he'd been very dedicated to his blog and had written a few twenty-thousand word tit-bits about his various boring hobbies.

"God, have you ever got that many comments before?" Sherlock shook his head. John's eyes widened.

"I'm as puzzled as you. The view counter you installed must be malfunctioning. I only posted it last night after dinner and now...923 views?"

"Sherlock. What was this particular blog entry about?"

Sherlock murmured something about beds.

"Beds? Why would anyone..."

John almost slid off the sofa in realisation, holding onto Sherlock's shoulder for support. His hand clenched down hard.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"You didn't write about the other night, did you?"

John braced himself, knowing from the foully worded and downright creepy comments what the answer would be. Sherlock looked back at the screen.

"If you mean Tuesday night from one forty-five in the morning onwards, yes."

John wrenched the laptop from Sherlock's hands, to an indignant cry, and hurriedly scrolled up to the original post. It was a good deal shorter than the rest but what it lacked in length it easily made up for in content.

"Oh god." John lowered his head and sank into himself, cursing profusely.

"I don't see what the matter is. I only said that you were feeling down since Sarah left you for that man who worked in Coventry with one small dog, so I tried to distract you by inviting you to my room."

John was shaking.

"Look, I didn't go into that much detail. I just said that we fell asleep afterwards!"

John did not respond, his fists clenched, breathing heavily.

"I just said that we were experimenting!"

"And the bed did creak a lot." Sherlock reminded him matter-of-factly, "It tends to when you're conducting a physics experiment with it, or as I called it, a physical experiment."

"Look, John. I think it's perfectly clear to anyone with any sense that we were conducting an experiment on how a victim could have fallen after being shot. You, like those appalling, what do you call them, _trolls_, are just reading it the way you want it to be."

At that, John lost it. He leapt to his feet and proceeded to verbally abuse Sherlock so fiercely, so loudly, so graphically, that Mrs Hudson marched up the stairs and told John off for making such a racket.


End file.
